


Of Heresy and Free Will

by LadySheik



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Grammarly is my beta, High Fantasy AU, I have a Zen fic in the works I promise, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm still mad at him tho, Jumin kind of means well, Poison, Swordfights, Whump, Zen is only briefly mentioned sorry guys, he's trying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-05-02 10:23:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19196911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySheik/pseuds/LadySheik
Summary: When Aoife, the wife of the Crown Prince Han, falls ill from a mysterious poison, Jumin has to make a choice: her life or his religion.





	1. Part One: Jaehee

            Jaehee was out in the stables when the Red Messenger found her.

            She liked to spend time with the horses. They calmed her, gave her a certain sense of peace that was hard to find as Stewardess to the Crown Prince.

            Jaehee moved the curry comb in small circles, humming softly under her breath as the dappled gray mare chewed hay. The horse occasionally stamped her foot or flicked her tail, but Jaehee was quick on her feet and used to the movements.

            The stables themselves – dust and dry hay and sweaty horses and creaking wood – brought back memories of her uncle’s horse ranch. Mostly bad ones, of being unloved and unwanted, but also good ones of cleaning out stalls and breaking the young colts and fillies for riding. The good memories themselves weren’t even that good, she supposed, giving the curry comb one final brush before changing it out for a stiff brush. They were ones where she didn’t have to feel anything.

            Her current situation was far better in most respects that it had been. Stewardess was a coveted position, one that came with a lot of work. Jaehee almost felt that the ability to wear breeches and trousers almost made up for it. At least she didn’t have to sit in another cursed sidesaddle.

            “Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.”

            Every nerve in her body jumped, and she dropped her brush as she leaped into the air. She looked around wildly for the source of the voice, only to see the mare she had been brushing look back at her with mild curiosity.

            “Up here, Stewardess.”

            Jaehee looked up to see a young man with a shock of red hair and spectacles peering down at her from the rafters like some kind of demented owl. She scowled up at him, and he grinned back down at her.

            “I understand your need for secrecy,” Jaehee said, bending down the retrieve her brush, “but would it kill you to just come through the stall door?”

            “Did I scare you?” The man threw his head back in a sharp laugh. “My apologies.”

            “There’s no point in apologizing if you aren’t actually sorry,” Jaehee snapped. She took a breath to regain her composure and resumed brushing the horse. “What is the Red Messenger even doing here, so far outside the city?”

            The amusement in his yellow eyes cleared in an instant, and he dropped down from the rafters with the grace of a cat. “Aoife sent me. A message for Jumin.”

            That got Jaehee’s attention. “What could be so pressing that the Princess would send a message?”

            The Red Messenger looked away, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “She’s dying.”

            Jaehee fixed him with a wide-eyed stare. “I- That’s impossible.”

            The Red Messenger nodded, still not meeting the stewardess’ eyes. His voice was very quiet, as though someone might be listening in. “She was ambushed. Finished them off with relative ease, but one of their blades got her arm. There must have been some kind of poison on it. We aren’t sure. Aoife seemed to know that none of the healers could do anything – she sent out for shamans after two days of being fussed over by them.”

            Jaehee swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “How? Her Highness is one of the most skilled blade dancers in this realm – possibly on the entire continent. I have never seen any opponent lay a finger on her. How could she have been injured?”

            He cleared his throat, still speaking softly. “Aoife is only human, Jaehee. She may be a blade dancer, but she is still only human. Her attackers had surprise on their side.”

            Jaehee dropped the brush into the bucket and leaned up against the side of the stall, putting her head into her hands. Deep breaths. She needed to focus.

            “We have to tell the Crown Prince,” Jaehee said, voice muffled.

            “Well, yes, that was the intention.”

            She took another deep breath and removed her head from her hands. “We can’t have you walking around the Baron’s manor house. I assume you know what room the Crown Prince is staying in?”

            The Red Messenger bobbed his head, petting the mare absently on her flank.

            “You go there and wait for myself and the Crown Prince. It shouldn’t take long.”

            The Red Messenger nodded again. “Don’t tell Jumin it’s from his wife. At least not when there are other people around. If word got out…”

            Jaehee nodded. “I understand completely.” She left the stall and walked quickly out of the stables and into the courtyard.

            The Crown Princess injured… the thought made Jaehee sick to her stomach. She was a wonderful woman, a little hotheaded but quick to laugh and always in Jaehee’s corner when the Crown Prince was too demanding. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, both on the battlefield and in the courtroom.

            Jaehee remembered meeting her at the Festival of Lights. The Crown Prince and his companion V had gone down to see the ‘heathen demonstrations of swordsmanship’ as Jumin phrased it. It was always a mystery to Jaehee why V, as an acolyte of the temple, was never as vocal about his beliefs as the Crown Prince.

Aoife had been dressed in a dark red top that exposed her midriff – Jaehee remembered that part very well. The indecency of it had made her cheeks flame, but neither V nor the Crown Prince had looked disturbed in the slightest. Watching her spar with her fellow blade dancer was like… well, a dance. The smooth motions, the stamping of bare feet on the cobblestones, the flash of bright eyes lined with kohl, the clash of steel on steel. Everything about it oozing a primordial sensuality, dangerous and divine all at once.

Jaehee could not imagine how such a fighter had been injured. She had never even seen the Crown Princess catch a cold or get a papercut, let alone be poisoned by another person’s weapon. But the Red Messenger was right. Though she seemed so unearthly at times, she was only human.

            The hallways loomed large around her, and she wondered if this was how judgement would feel when she made it to the afterlife. A sense of foreboding had settled deep in her chest, and already anxiety was coiling her insides into knots. Even the tapestries depicting various scenes of merriment and art did nothing to ease her nerves.

            The parlor door was open, but Jaehee paused in the entrance and knocked on the wooden frame anyways. Jumin looked up from the table where a number of carved figurines sat on a circular board. He looked out of place in his dark clothes, sitting across from a petite blonde child and surrounded by various lacy decorations. The girl – Ima was her name, the daughter of the baron – looked at Jaehee impassively before returning her gaze back to the board.

            Jaehee bowed at the waist, staring at her reflection in her boots. She would have to compliment the shoeshine boy. “Your Highness, Your Ladyship, I beg your forgiveness for my interruption.”

            The setting sun shone through the windows, lending the otherwise cold and frivolously decorated room a warm glow and making the silver buttons on the front of the Crown Prince’s coat shine. “What requires my attention so badly that you would interrupt?” Jumin moved his gaze back to the pieces in front of him and considered them for a moment before moving a marble crow up and to the left.

            Ima raised her eyebrow. “An excellent move, Your Highness,” she demurred. She ignored Jaehee’s presence entirely and moved one of her foxes somewhere out of Jaehee’s line of sight.

            Jaehee straightened and took a slow breath, trying to stop it from shaking. She needed to pull herself together. “I have received a missive from His Majesty the King,” Jaehee replied. “I was told it was urgent and of the utmost importance.”

            Jumin’s hand paused in its path. “I see.” He sighed ever so slightly and stood. With a bow to Ima, she said, “Please accept my sincerest apologies, my lady.”

            She inclined her head to him. “Familial piety is an excellent quality in a crown prince,” she responded, voice light as she began to move the pieces back to their original positions. “One can only hope that your wife has the same devotion to the country.” Ima’s smile was genial, but her eyes were sharp. “Perhaps we might find time in the future for another game.”

            Jaehee did not miss the tightening of Jumin’s shoulders and the tremor that passed through his fingers. “That sounds most agreeable,” was all the Crown Prince said before sweeping out of the room with a stormy look in his eyes that belied his passive expression.

            She followed Jumin down the hall to an empty sitting room, shutting the door behind him. This room was less frivolous, though no less decorated – hunting trophies adorned the walls, glassy eyes staring down at the two of them.

            “She is bold to insult my wife to my face,” Jumin groused, glaring up at a boar’s head.

            Jaehee weighed a couple options before responding, “She once made you uncomfortable too, Your Highness. It is only natural that the court would worry about the safety of you and your family.”

            “They only wish for new gossip and a scapegoat,” Jumin said dismissively. He turned to face Jaehee. “What is the news from my father?”

            Jaehee cleared her throat and blinked several times to push back the tears. Why was she starting to cry? Aoife wasn’t even dead yet, and her own people were coming to heal her. There was no reason to be this emotional. “There is no message from the king. The Red Messenger just arrived while I was in the stables. He brings a message from your wife.”

            The Crown Prince’s expression of mild interest transformed into one of alarm and concern. “What is the matter with Aoife?”

            “I-She…” Jaehee trailed off. “Perhaps we should go to your rooms and have the Red Messenger deliver the news himself.”

            Jumin was out of the room before Jaehee even finished her sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, thanks so much for reading! Just so everyone knows, each chapter is going to be from the POV of a different character, minus Zen (I didn't have a chapter for him, and I feel so bad, but he gets a cameo!). I'm gonna upload once a week, so stay tuned and subscribe to the fic for updates. 
> 
> Also, for those of you who are reading my MysMes Space AU fic, I have chapter one finished! It's going through betas at the moment, and then I'll have to do edits, but it should be up *hopefully* in the next month or so, but I can't make any promises. The good news is that I'm excellent at rewrites and editing, so the hard part is over! Yay!
> 
> Thanks again for reading! This fic is pretty skimpy on the worldbuilding, so if you have any questions, leave me a comment! I'm more than happy to answer as long as it doesn't spoil the rest of the story.


	2. Part Two: The Red Messenger

            The Red Messenger was lying on the Jumin’s bed when he burst into the room. He sat up, tugging at the bottom of his black tunic to straighten the worst of the wrinkles. Exhaustion permeated every inch of his body, but the Red Messenger focused his mind on the task at hand. Aoife was depending on him, and he owed her too much to let her down.

            “My wife, how is she?” Jumin asked, unbuttoning the ceremonial coat and removing the doublet underneath as he made his way to the closet.

            The Red Messenger couldn’t help but quirk his lips. The Crown Prince asked the question so casually that if he hadn’t seen the set to his shoulders and the panic in his eyes, the Red Messenger would have suspected Jaehee hadn’t told him anything. “Do you want me to lie?” he asked, running his fingers through his hair. It was bad enough having to tell Jaehee the truth of the situation – delivering the news to Aoife’s husband was bound to be a thousand times worse.

            And he was just so tired.

            “Do not ever lie to me under any circumstances.” Jumin’s voice was low and almost a growl.

            The Red Messenger saw Jaehee wince, and he winced with her.

            “I did not promote you as the head of my spy network to have you feed me lies,” Jumin continued, voice smoothing out. “Now, what is wrong with my wife?”

            The other man closed his eyes, dredging up the last of his patience and energy. “She was out on a ride in the Southern Wood when she was ambushed. Four on one with the advantage of surprise wasn’t enough to overpower her, and Aoife dispatched them with ease, but one of them managed to get a neat slice on her arm. She thought nothing of it and patched it up before heading back to the palace.

            “That was a little over a week ago. There must have been some kind of poison on the blade, because she started complaining of chills and refusing food. The king has all the finest healers tending to her, but she grows worse with each passing day. I received a message by hawk on my way here, and it tells me that Aoife has sent for shamans from the wandering tribes of Alsathoth.”

            Jumin emerged from the closet dressed in modest brown riding clothes, and the Red Messenger fought the urge to pout. Couldn’t he even _sleep_? Just for half an hour? He didn’t know how Jaehee managed.

            “Surely the desert nomads are unnecessary?” Jumin asked with distaste, fitting his feet into riding boots.

            Jaehee frowned and spoke for the first time since entering the room. “They are her people, Your Highness. If she truly is… in such poor health, then it makes sense that she would want her people near her.”

            The Crown Prince was struggling with the snug leather, and he gave the boot a sharp jerk. “She chose to marry me, so my people are her people. I do not see why she wants the company of backward charlatans who claim to wield magic.”

            The Red Messenger raised an eyebrow, and Jaehee shrugged imperceptibly behind Jumin. “Surely if your people are now her people, then it works the other way around, no?” he remarked, watching the Crown Prince with bemusement.

            Jumin scowled at him as he fastened his cloak over his shoulders. “I am the crown prince. I do not associate with heretics and lowly nomads.”

            Indignant fury rose up in his breast – who did Jumin think he was, to presume he was better than his wife? But he quashed it down underneath a sardonic bow and a cheery grin. “I’ll be sure to pass that along to your wife upon our return.”

            “You will do no such thing,” Jumin snapped. He turned to Jaehee. “Please convey my apologies to the Baron and his family. You may tell them that a family emergency called me home.”

            Jaehee must have been just as tired as the Red Messenger, because she sighed and rubbed her temple instead of bowing to her sovereign. It was a breach of protocol that the impeccable Stewardess would never have missed. “Of course, Your Highness.”

            “Red Messenger,” Jumin said, snapping his fingers as he strode out the door. “Let’s move. The horses still need saddling.”

            The Red Messenger watched the Crown Prince go before wrapping an arm around Jaehee’s shoulders and giving her a quick squeeze. “At least you don’t have to deal with him for a little while.”

            The young woman sighed again. “No, but I’m still cleaning up the messes he leaves.”

            He sobered at that and released Jaehee’s shoulders, rubbing his eyes. “And here I was hoping to catch a nap in between the rides.”

            Jaehee looked sympathetic. “Send me a bird if the Crown Princess’ condition worsens?” she asked.

            “Of course,” the Red Messenger replied with a bow. “I better catch up or he’s going to be pissed.”

            The redhead took his time wandering through the shadowed halls to the kitchen and out the back door. By the time he made his way to the stables, Jumin had already saddled two horses and sat on one. The only sign of impatience was the rapid bouncing of his leg in the stirrup.

            “The sun is already set,” Jumin said in a clipped tone. “Come, let us be on our way.”

            The Red Messenger sighed heavily as he clambered without grace into the saddle. He clicked his tongue, and the bay began to move at a brisk trot, with the Crown Prince following behind. The bay wasn’t the same horse he had ridden in on, but Jaehee would make sure all the horses were well cared for. She might be a Stewardess now, but she was a horsewoman through and through, and the Red Messenger wasn’t concerned about the gelding he left behind.

            They were well outside the manor grounds and deep into the forest when Jumin next spoke.

            “Surely you had men watching her?”

            It took a moment for his sleep-deprived mind to connect the dots. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring out at the dark path in front of him, dappled by moonlight where it broke through the trees. “I could assign the entire criminal underworld to watch Aoife Ixi Alsathoth, and she would still give them the slip if she wanted to.”

            “You do not refer to her by her name.” There was nothing pointed or biting about Jumin’s comment, only curiosity.

            The Red Messenger shrugged, though he wasn’t sure if his companion could see it. “I knew Aoife well before you, and well before she became your wife. Regardless of what your customs dictate about women taking their husband’s names, she will always be Aoife Ixi Alsathoth to me and my brother.”

            The Crown Prince fell silent, and the other man allowed his thoughts to wander.

            Aoife had looked so frail when he had stood by her bedside, giving him instructions. It was a terrifying image, and the Red Messenger hated that he couldn’t do anything to help beyond carrying messages.

            Other memories crowded their way up to the front of his mind, some that he had long forgotten. The most prominent one was of a much younger and much smaller Aoife dressed in golden-yellow robes of the Dancer Monastery, waving at him while she waited with a practice sword in hand. It seemed like ages ago, when he and his brother went by names instead of titles, when they were small and defenseless and alone except for each other.

            Some of the Red Messenger’s favorite memories involved him and his brother sparring with Aoife. Even when she was young, she was composed and patient, a thorough teacher who expected excellence and understood failure.

            His brother had put her up on a pedestal back then. To him, Aoife had been nothing short of a deity and could do no wrong in his eyes. Even now, as adults and no longer blind to each other’s faults, his twin’s love for Aoife was unconditional and the closest he would ever come to loving someone like he did the Red Messenger.

            To the Red Messenger, though, Aoife was something of a savior. When he had thought he was alone in the world, she had showered him with kindness and love, teaching him how to protect himself and his brother. Now that he thought about it, though, savior wasn’t the right word. She was like a sister to him. And he suspected, on some level, she felt that way about them as well.

            “How?” Jumin asked.

            The Red Messenger couldn’t help but wince in sympathy at the crack in the other man’s voice. To lose a sister-figure was one thing – to lose a wife was quite another. He tried his best to be gentle, even though that wasn’t his strong point. “Surprise can turn the tide of any battle. In truth, the wound itself is not even that bad.” He paused, then said, “If it makes you feel any better, I sent some of my people out to find the people responsible. They only found what was left. Aoife isn’t one of the greatest blade dancers for nothing, after all.”

            Jumin took a shaky breath, and when the Red Messenger looked over his shoulder, he saw the Crown Prince nodding. “And… the healers?”

            Helplessness spread through his body like lead. “They’re doing their best. But something about the nature of the malady tells me that this is no normal poison.”

            Immediately, Jumin’s voice hardened. “Surely you do not suggest that the illness, or poison, is magical in nature. That would be heresy.”

            The Red Messenger shrugged. “I make no definite claims one way or the other, but as Jaehee told you, the king has the best healers working on her, and they still haven't made progress yet. It's not impossible that it's something we don't understand yet.” He pulled back on his reins so Jumin could draw even with him and gave the Crown Prince a sidelong look. “You have a high-handed tone, though, coming from someone married to a heretic monk.”

            “My wife is not heretical,” he said through clenched teeth. “She is simply… misguided about some matters.”

            The Red Messenger snorted in derision, remember the hundreds of times he and his brother had watched Aoife work blade magic with awe. “I’m not sure she’d appreciate that assessment.”

            “You are too bold!” Jumin snapped, finally losing his temper. “You are my inferior, and you will treat me with the respect I am due!”

            At that, the Red Messenger smiled, but it was cold and devoid of humor. A shaft of moonlight fell across the dirt path, and he could see the effect his expression had on Jumin – the Crown Prince was unnerved and unsettled. “I would watch my tongue if I were you, Your Highness,” he said. “You may be the Crown Prince, but do not underestimate the power of a man with an entire criminal underworld at the tips of his fingers. Between my brother and I, we could destroy you and everything you hold dear at a moment’s notice. You would do well not to forget that.”

            With that, he clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward into the darkness. It was going to be a long two days back to the palace.


	3. Part Three: Yoosung

             Yoosung retrieved another bowl of cool water and returned to the Crown Princess’ bedside. He hadn’t had much interaction with her before, beyond her visits to the infirmary for sleeping tonics and the like for the Crown Prince, but even so, she had been a strong and healthy woman. Looking at the one lying in the bed, Yoosung could see that it was her face and her hair, but everything else looked… wrong.

            Her skin was sallow and pale. Her eyes looked sunken, and dark circles lined them. If Yoosung couldn’t see the rise and fall of her labored breathing, he would have thought she was dead.

            As it was, she was well on her way to that state. Nothing he or the other healers tried worked. Poultices, potions, herbs, teas, baths, nothing was working. One of the healers had even gone so far as to bring in leeches, but even that failed.

            Yoosung sighed and removed the cloth from her forehead. Late yesterday afternoon, the Crown Princess had developed a fever. In hindsight, Yoosung thought it a miracle that it had taken this long. The other healers had insisted that it wasn’t serious yet, but they wanted to do their best to keep her temperature down. Which meant that someone had to be at her side at all times. That honor fell to the apprentices; he had the first shift.

            He dipped the too-warm cloth in the cold water and wrung it out before gently placing it back on her head. She sighed and shifted in the bed, but it didn’t wake her up.

            Yoosung sat down in the chair at the bedside that had been his post for the half day or so. The crimson bedsheets were wrinkled and hadn’t been changed in days. His fingers itched to switch them out with something clean, but his tutor had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed to move her.

            He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, ignoring the scratchy fabric of his white trousers. The Crown Princess was famous for her inability to be still. Even when sitting, her hands moved with her as she spoke. One of the courtiers, an albino with white hair, was overly fond of saying that she didn’t just talk – she performed.

            Which was, of course, ridiculous, and utterly nonsensical. But seeing her so… lifeless, Yoosung couldn’t help but think that the courtier was right.

            The young apprentice was fighting back sleep and considering asking someone to fetch him coffee, or maybe something to eat, when the door to the royal apartments banged open.

            Yoosung jumped and fell out of his chair with a yelp. His shoulder hit the flagstones hard, and he groaned. That was going to leave a bruise.

            When he looked up at the bed, he saw the familiar slender figure of the Crown Prince sitting on the edge of the bed. He was laughing, but it sounded almost hysterical. Yoosung picked himself up as quietly as he could and withdrew to the corner by the window. He technically wasn’t allowed to leave until one of the other apprentices relieved him, but he didn’t want to intrude either.

            The Crown Princess had awoken, and Yoosung watched her raise her hand to cup the side of her husband’s face. He felt his breath catch in his throat at the intimacy of the gesture, and he looked away for a moment to give the couple some semblance of privacy.

            When he looked back, the Crown Prince was sitting up. Presumably, he had kissed his wife, but Yoosung couldn’t say for certain.

            That was a lie. The Crown Prince was known for being incredibly affectionate to his wife. He had most definitely kissed her. Even though she looked like death, her husband still smiled at her like she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

            “Good morning, my love,” he said, leaning down to give her another kiss on her brow, just below the towel.

            Yoosung knew from replacing towels and shifting blankets that the Crown Princess’ skin was clammy and hot, not to mention unwashed. But the Crown Prince didn’t seem to care. The whole exchange was bringing tears to Yoosung’s eyes, and he wiped them quickly.

            “Is it morning?” the Crown Princess asked. Her voice was croaky and hoarse, but she still gave Yoosung a small smile when she looked to the window. Yoosung smiled back at her and gave a little wave.

            The Crown Prince did not turn around. “It is. How are you?”

            She snorted at that. “Dying, Jumin.” Her accent was clipped, but her husband’s name rolled off her tongue with ease. “I sent for shamans. They should be here in the next day.”

            His voice was patient. “My love, they cannot help.”

            “The poison, or whatever it is, is not of this world. Your healers cannot help me.”

            Yoosung could see the Crown Prince’s jaw harden. “My dawn, there is no such thing as magic.”

            She laughed at that, but it turned into a hacking cough that had her husband on his feet and hovering at her side. “Always the skeptic.” Her voice was teasing, but it was easy to see that her heart wasn’t in it, and she closed her eyes.

            Yoosung worried that the conversation was taking too much out of her. She needed to rest. But he wasn’t about to go up and tell the Crown Prince that he had to leave his wife.

            “I can’t let them see you.”

            Yoosung felt his stomach fall to his feet.

            He wasn’t the only one. The Crown Princess’ eyes shot open, and she struggled to lift herself up onto her elbows. The towel on her forehead fell to the floor. “Like hell you won’t,” she said, glaring up at her husband. “I’ll die if they don’t.”

            His voice was a whisper. “I cannot. I will not jeopardize your immortal soul.”

            She laughed, but it wasn’t a nice laugh, and it sent her into another round of coughing. “Your religion is not mine. Even if I do have an immortal soul, we will not be together in whatever afterlife they teach to you. I’m afraid that now is all you’ll have with me.”

            “If I let them into my castle, and they heal you,” he said, still talking quietly, calmly, “what will our people say of you?”

            “You know very well that I don’t give a damn,” the Crown Princess hissed. “Do not for one second make this refusal about me. I have never cared what your people think of me, and I never will. This is about you. How they will view you, how the temple priests will view you, how your goddess will view you, how you will view yourself. You say you do not believe in magic, but you have seen me cast it from my own hands, in front of your very eyes. Your refusals have never been about me. It has always been about you.”

            Yoosung closed his mouth when he realized it was hanging open. Magic was real? And the Crown Princess could wield it? That smacked of heresy, and Yoosung could only imagine the things that people would say if word got out. The Crown Prince was right to worry.

            The Crown Prince leaned forward and kissed his wife on the forehead. “I will send the healers back to see to you.” He stood, pushing against his knee, and began to walk towards the door.

            “Don’t you dare do this to me, Jumin! If you walk through that door and carry out your intentions, you condemn me to death against my will.”

            The Crown Prince only paused a second in his steps. “I’m doing this for you.”

            “Do not walk out that door,” she said, voice even and measured for the first time in days,

            He took one breath, and then another. “I would never be able to forgive myself if I jeopardized your soul.” The door shut behind him with a dry click.

            The Crown Princess’ muscles shook with the strain of holding herself up, and when the door shut, she collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the canopy with a numb expression.

            Yoosung rushed to her side to attend to her, scooping up the towel and dipping it into the water before washing her face. “Are you alright, Your Highness?” he asked, searching for any signs of a worsening fever. The red spots high on her cheekbones could be from the fever, but it was equally likely that they were from anger.

            She did not look like the proud warrior Yoosung knew her to be. He had seen many demonstrations in the training yards, where he had been standing by as a medic. But the fire in her eyes was one he recognized.

            When she looked up at him, though, she deflated, and her eyes became glassy with tears. “Aoife.”

            “What?”

            “You can just call me Aoife.” She raised a hand to wipe her eyes, and her fingers were shaking. “Yoosung, can you do me a favor?”

            He was surprised that she knew his name, and he nodded.

            She sniffed and closed her eyes. “I need you to take the small mirror on the stand over there,” Aoife pointed to a dresser on the far wall, “the one with the mother-of-pearl inset? Can you grab it?”

            Yoosung did as she asked, holding the mirror carefully in his fingers. It was probably more expensive than anything he would ever own.

            “Perfect. Just put it in the window where you were sitting. And make sure it catches the light.”

            He crossed the floor and moved the curtains to the side. The mirror clicked as he set it down, and he had to cover his eyes at the sudden flash of reflected light. When he finished, he returned to her side, checking her fever with the back of his hand.

            “Thank you, Yoosung.” She sighed and sunk a little deeper in the pillows.

            “I’m sorry,” he said, and it came out as a whisper. “If he loved you, he would let them come treat you.”

            Aoife opened her eyes, and he was struck by how the gold and orange flecks shone in the light. “It’s not that he doesn’t love me.” The words came out as a sigh, and Yoosung thought she was going to continue, but she did not.

            There was a knock at the door, and another apprentice poked her head through. “I’m supposed to watch Her Highness now.”

            Yoosung nodded and stood, bowing to the Crown Princess. “I hope you get well soon.”

            She gave him a tired smile. “I will.”


	4. Part Four: The Angel of Death

            The Angel of Death scaled the walls of the palace for the second time that day. Cold rage had been fueling him all night, and he didn’t think it was going to abate any time soon. Even the strong winds that threatened to chill him to the bone couldn’t stop him.

            His fingers gripped the ledge of a window, and he pulled himself up onto it.

            Behind the glass, the Angel of Death could see a room dimly lit by the rising sun. A fire smoldered in the hearth, and a tall man with a mop of dark hair lay passed out one of the couches nearby.

            He felt his mouth twist into a sneer and he inserted a fine metal tool where the window met the wall. The latch inside flipped open with a quick twist of his wrist. He eased the window open and dropped soundlessly to the floor, shutting it behind him.

            For a few moments, he didn’t move. Aside from the Crown Prince, the room was empty. Just outside the closed door, he could hear the shifting of armor – guards, three of them. The whole palace must know by now that Aoife was missing. The knowledge made his entrance that much more reprehensible – their Crown Princess had just been stolen, and they had let a man simply scale the walls without even seeing him. His lip curled again in another sneer. Pathetic.

            His feet were silent as he moved over to where the Crown Prince lay, snoring slightly. The sight of him surrounded by several empty bottles of wine only served to heighten his rage. This was a man who had condemned his wife to death, and he had the audacity to drink himself drunk over it? As if there was nothing he could do to help her.

            The Angel of Death wanted nothing more than to plant his boot in the man’s pathetic face, but Aoife had asked him only to deliver her challenge.

            He calmed himself. Aoife had been so weak when they carried her out of the palace and to one of the criminal underground’s many safe houses. The shamans waiting there for her hadn’t even looked concerned when he and his twin had brought her in.

            “Not to worry,” they had said. One of them smoothed her hair back with a very paternal motion, and Aoife took his hand to lay a kiss on the knuckles. “She would be much father gone if we could not save her.”

            One of them had stayed behind as the others began fussing over her, burning herbs and setting up candles. She had explained that Aoife must have only gotten a small taste of what the assassins had tried to give her – it was very potent and should have killed her within days. That she was still here, almost two weeks after being poisoned, was a testament to her health and her strength.

            They had been kind enough to allow both boys to stay while they healed her. And within hours, Aoife was walking around under her own power and eating broth with soft vegetables.

            The Red Messenger had cried. The Angel would have been lying if he said he hadn’t.

            She had hugged both of them tightly, thanking them as they held her tight, and she asked the Angel if he would deliver a challenge.

            Really, it was his pleasure.

            He had spent the entire journey here contemplating how best to deliver it, and how to wake the Crown Prince upon his arrival. Now, he stood at the arm of the couch, staring down into the other man’s sleeping face, and blew gently over his eyes. It was disturbing enough that the Crown Prince would wake, but subtle enough that he would think that he woke on his own.

            Grey eyes blinked open slowly, and then widened in alarm as they saw the Angel of Death. The Crown Prince let out a cry and fell off the couch.

            The Angel stood still, listening for any movement of the guards outside. There was none – stone walls were excellent sound blockers.

            He turned his attention back to the Crown Prince, who was holding his head and whimpering. The Angel wagered that he must have one hell of a hangover. After a few moments, he opened one eye to stare up at the Angle.

            “What do you want?” he croaked.

            The Angel of Death could think of several things he wanted, but he thought it best to keep it simple. “The Red Messenger has sent me with news.”

            He could see the previous day’s events come rushing back to the Crown Prince. “Aoife!” The Crown Prince scrambled into a sitting position, wincing at the pain as he stared at the Angel with beseeching eyes. “Where is she? Is she hurt?”

            The Angel of Death blinked at him. “I was told to tell you that Aoife is safe and receiving the care she needs.” He fixed the dark-haired man with a glare. “The care _you_ denied her.”

            It filled him with no little satisfaction to see man wilt at the accusation. The pain in his eyes was just icing on the cake.

            “I have also been told to tell you that your wife has challenged you to a duel over her honor.”

            The pain turned into confusion and more than a little panic. “I—a _duel_?”

            “A duel,” the Angel said with a nod. “Her grounds are that by your refusal to let her seek the treatments that would save her life, you have violated both your duty as her husband and as her rights as a human with her own agency and free will. The terms are one blade of your own choosing, in three days’ time.”

            The Crown Prince’s breath hitched, and his fingers curled tightly into the rug. “To the death?” he asked in a small voice.

            The Angel of Death smiled, and the Crown Prince’s expression changed from one of panic to one of fear. “If you do not show for the duel, it is up to me to take recompense on her behalf. And I will not be so gentle as your wife, nor so forgiving, so I would choose well, if I were you.”

            “I… I employ your brother,” he said, lost. “You can’t just… you can’t just _do that_.”

            The Angel of Death walked the rest of the way around to couch to crouch in front of the Crown Prince. “You may pay us handsomely for our services to you and to the crown, but make no mistake, we owe our allegiance to none but our own. You should be grateful that I am issuing this challenge to you. If I had my way, you would have been dead hours ago.” The Angel stood and began walking towards the window. “I hope you do not show to the duel. I would very much enjoy crushing you under my boot.”

            He opened the window, hopped up on the windowsill, and gave Jumin a sardonic bow. “Have a good day, Your Highness.” With that, he stepped back off the sill and into the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there! O.O Two weeks until the conclusion!


	5. Part Five: V

            The temple was silent.

            It was still early as V knelt before the altar and the large stone statue of the goddess that hovered above it. A waterfall of marble flowers spilled from her fingers to the table below, where a bowl full of water sat completely still.

            The stone walls echoed with the sound of boots on the worn green rugs. V did not move, his two hands making a triangle where his head touched the floor. The owner of the boots paused next to him before kneeling down and prostrating as well.

            No words were spoken for a long time as they communed with the goddess. V spent his communion in an odd combination of prayer and thought. His prayers focused mainly on Aoife and Jumin. His thoughts centered around the duel.

            Everyone knew. The message had spread through the city like wildfire, and even the priesthood was not immune to the passage of rumor and news. V had heard only snippets; that Aoife had disappeared a few days ago, and twelve hours later she was issuing a challenge to her husband. A duel of blades. A fight to the death.

            When V finished, he rose and wiped gently at his forehead to get rid of any lingering dust. He looked down at the person next to him.

            Jumin was dressed soberly in black. No armor adorned him, nor did he wear his circlet or his signet ring. V didn’t recall ever seeing him without them. The only other item on the Crown Prince’s person was a thin rapier – the weapon he was most skilled with.

            The other man sat back on his heels, and V could see that his eyes were red from crying. “I’m going to die today.”

            Seeing that Jumin was not going to get up from the floor, V sat there next to him. The Temple’s room of worship always seemed so vast and empty, since there were no chairs or pews.

            “You cannot beat Aoife,” V finally agreed, leaning back on his elbows and staring at the carved animals and plants on the ceiling. “But I cannot imagine she will kill you. You are her husband, and she loves you.”

            Jumin’s jaw tensed and he blinked, but it didn’t stop several tears from slipping down his cheeks. “I have committed an unforgivable sin.”

            V placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “No sin is unforgivable if you are truly penitent.”  

            Jumin didn’t speak for a minute. “I took away her free will.” His voice was quiet, but it still echoed around the temple.

V didn’t say anything, knowing that his friend would continue speaking if given the proper time.

            “She sent for shamans. Something about the poison, or whatever it was that made her so sick, could not be cured by healers. I refused to let her see them, for fear that her soul would be jeopardized.”

            “I suspected it was magic in nature when I went to see her,” V mused, turning his eyes back to the ceiling. “The course of the illness didn’t seem natural.”

            Jumin’s gaze was sharp, and V could feel it without even looking. “I thought magic was a heresy in the eyes of the goddess.”

            V shrugged noncommittally. “She created everything. The priesthood has thought for a long time that magic was a mockery of the goddess, putting man where she should stand.”

            A beat of silence. “And what do you think?”

            “I think,” V said slowly, “that we have been creating things for as long as we have walked this world. Art, tools, food. Creation lives in our blood. Magic is its own kind of creation – it’s just one we don’t understand yet. And when people do not understand, they fear.”

            Jumin let his head drop into his hands and cradled it there. “I was going to let her die, Jihyun. Because I was afraid.”

            “And what were you afraid of?”

            Jumin sniffed and followed V’s gaze to the ceiling. “There’s has been talk recently,” he said, “that Aoife was not loyal to the crown and country. It has been hinted to me numerous times by the nobility. I thought that, if the shamans were to treat her, it could spark assassination attempts.” He looked to V, and his face was stricken. “I can’t lose her.”

            V sighed. “And yet your actions have caused that fate anyway.”

            “She must be so furious with me,” Jumin whispered, eyes wide and unblinking.

            “Aoife is a proud woman. The only way to win back her respect is to show up to the duel. Have faith in your wife, Jumin. I am sure that ‘to the death’ is not what it seems.” To tell the truth, V could not bring himself to believe that Aoife had made that proclamation. Something was wrong. She was kind above all else – she did not relish in death.

            “It seems fairly clear to me,” Jumin said, voice souring.

            V shook his head. “I cannot believe that is what Aoife intends.”

            Jumin stood, holding a hand down for his friend to take. “In case she does intend to duel to me to the death, a choice which I completely understand, I would like you to give me last rites.”

            V took his hand, and the two of them began moving to the altar. Jumin stopped in front of it, while V circled to the back. He picked up a small stone bowl with one hand and placed the other on top of Jumin’s.

            What V loved best about the rituals is that there were no words. It seemed fitting, that the best way to speak with the goddess was to commune from within yourself. After all, they were her creation as much as anything else, and little remnants of her and her power were in all of them.

            V dipped the bowl into the water, watching the ripples spread and bounce back, and poured it over Jumin’s head. He scraped his friend’s hair back and gave a gentle tap to his forehead. The other man straightened, and V dipped his fingers into the water, painting Jumin’s eyelids and lower lip with it. In the final movement of the ritual, V took Jumin’s hands in his and submerged them in the water.

            When they had finished, V drew a small towel from within his robe. He dried off his own hands before passing it off to Jumin, who dried his hands with a methodical thoroughness that V found comforting in its familiarity.      

            “Have faith, Jumin,” V said.

            Jumin gave him a wane smile. “I’ll try.”

            V watched his friend walk back out of the temple. When Jumin finally made it out the door, V sighed and went to change out of his robes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness. One more week! Can you believe it? :P


	6. Part Six: Jumin

            The duel took place outside of the city, in a large dirt circle that Stewardess Kang told him was used for training horses. The earth had been pounded flat, and small clouds of dust rose up under his boots as he went to stand in the center.

            The grass surrounding the circle whispered in the wind, and the sun shone hot on Jumin’s shoulders. He could feel the first beads of sweat start to run down his spine, and it occurred to him that while wearing all black was appropriate for the occasion of his death, it might not have been the smartest choice of attire.

            A crowd had gathered around the edge of the circle, some commoners but mostly nobles. The white hair and red eyes of Zen, the lord who ran the theater productions, were easy to spot in the front row. But to Jumin’s surprise, he did not look as ecstatic as he should, considering he was not quiet about his rampant dislike of the Crown Prince. Rather, he looked a little pensive, biting the pristine nail of one thumb as he looked around the circle. Their eyes locked once, and Jumin was the first to look away from the open concern in the other man’s eyes.

            The murmuring that had been rustling through the crowd stopped abruptly, and Jumin could see movement from the back rows of the circle. His breath caught as Aoife broke through the first row of people.

            It looked as though she had never been sick. Her skin had shed its deathly pallor in favor of its normal bronze glow. Dark waves of hair had been washed, elaborately braided and pinned up out of her way. She was dressed in the manner of traditional blade dancers, in orange-yellow trousers with bare feet and a dark red top that left her shoulders and midriff bare. A navel tattoo of two black fish swimming after each other in a circle stood in stark contrast with the rest of her taut muscles. Slung across her back was a single sheath – it looked off to Jumin, since he was so used to seeing it with its twin.

            Aoife paced with silent steps to the center of the circle to where Jumin stood, and it took him a second to remember how to breathe. Her eyes flashed bright and dark, no longer covered by the glassy film of illness.

            But most astonishingly, she did not look angry.

            Jumin bowed, eyes trained on his boots. “Good afternoon, Aoife.”

            She waited a second before bowing in return. “Hello, my love.”

            His head snapped up sharply at the endearment, and he found to his great surprise that she was smiling at him. Jumin could only blink as the two of them straightened, and a blade dancer in traditional garb that matched Aoife’s broke the ranks of nobles to stand in the circle as well.

            “Greetings!” the other blade dancer called, looking not the least bit pleased to see all the people here. “We are here today because the honor of _Kitya_ Aoife, master dancer, has been besmirched by the refusal of her husband, the Crown Prince Jumin Han, to allow her the medical treatment of the Alsathoth people, without which she would have surely died.”

            Muttering spread through the ranks of people once more, and next to Lord Zen, Jumin could see V smiling at him. He tried to smile back, but it felt more like a grimace.

            “In defense of her honor, the _Kitya_ has proposed a duel to wipe the offenses from the record. Each combatant is allowed one blade as their weapon of choice. No more, no less, and no other weapon in between.” The blade dancer turned to Aoife and Jumin, his long braid swinging. “If you would draw your weapons.”

            Aoife unsheathed her sword in a single fluid motion, revealing a curved blade with runes inset into the steel and a leather-wrapped hilt with no guard. The other blade dancer inspected it, running his fingers up and down the length of the blade before nodding.

            Jumin swallowed as he brought forth his rapier for inspection. The blade dancer also looked it over, though his inspection was much shorter. Jumin hoped it was because he did not need to check for magic. The thought occurred to him, as the blade dancer turned back to the crowd, that perhaps years of magic had soaked into his wife’s blade. Not that she would need it to best him.

            He looked up over his wife’s shoulder to see the Red Messenger and the Angel of Death standing next to each other. When separate, Jumin found it hard to believe they were twins, but together, their similarities were uncanny. The Angel of Death gave him a merciless smile, while the Red Messenger shot him a grin that looked only slightly friendlier than his brother’s.

            “The duelist’s blades have passed inspection,” the blade dancer announced. He walked to the edge of the circle before turning to face the duelists. “The duel may now commence!”

            Neither Jumin nor Aoife moved. He had watched his wife fight enough that he knew he had no hope of besting her. She was a patient fighter above all else; his only hope was to use what little surprise he might have to his advantage.

            He was not at all confident in himself.

            The crowd around them shuffled, unnerved by the lack of movement from the duelists. Jumin could not blame them. Aoife’s preternatural stillness was getting to him as well. Not even the tip of her blade moved as she watched him.

            Jumin attacked first, a quick jab intended to test her defense.

            That was a mistake.

            Aoife moved faster than he had ever seen, stepping to the side and bringing her sword up under his in a blur of motion. She followed it up with a sharp smack to his ribs with the dull edge of her blade.

            Jumin staggered to the side, gasping at the pain. That was going to leave a bruise. He quickly corrected himself, bringing his rapier back to the center.

            Aoife smiled at him. Was she having fun with this? Jumin swallowed again, feeling the perspiration accumulating at his hairline begin to drip down his forehead.

            Jumin took two steps to lunge forward, but Aoife was already moving, parrying his blade with the ease of a noble waving a handkerchief. His sword arm swung to the side and Aoife moved just inches away from his chest, spinning with her sword close to her body and one leg outstretched.

            Her calf hit him in the ribs, opposite from the one she had hit earlier, and sent him flying across the circle. He hit the ground on his side and barely managed to avoid having the wind knocked out of him.

            When he looked up, Aoife was moving towards him on the balls of her feet, as though she weighed nothing. She wasn’t even sweating.

            Jumin tried to get to his feet, but Aoife was at his side in a second, a small push to his shoulder sending him sprawling on his back. Her foot moved to gently rest on her husband’s chest, and her sword moved under his chin.

            And just like that, the duel was over.

            The other blade dancer stepped forward and divested Aoife of her sword with one smooth turn of his wrist. She relinquished it without comment.

            Jumin stared up at her, confusion painted across his features. Why hadn’t she killed him yet? Aoife just smiled back at him before turning her gaze back to the blade dancer.

            “The _Kitya_ has bested Jumin,” he announced. “According to our customs, the offense committed against her is now nullified. The slate is wiped clean for both parties.”

            Jumin wasn’t sure he was hearing right. The offense nullified?

            Aoife removed her foot and held out her hand. Jumin took it, dazed, and she lifted him into a sitting position.

            She crouched in front of him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Are you all right, my love? Did you hit your head?”

            “You didn’t kill me?”

            His wife looked shocked. “Of course not! That is not what this duel is. My love, how could you think I would slay my husband?”

            Tears began to burn at the back of his eyes, and he felt lost. “I… I sentenced you to death,” he whispered.

            “And the offense is no more,” Aoife said, cupping his cheeks with her calloused hands. “It is Alsathoth tradition. We do not believe in spilling blood unless it is in defense.”

            Jumin had been prepared to die today. Now that death was no longer on the table, he realized for the first time how much it had scared him.

            He leaned into his wife’s hands, and he cried. Not quiet tears, but wrenching, heaving sobs that shook his entire frame.

            For a moment, Aoife didn’t move. But then she removed her hands from his face and pulled Jumin into an embrace, holding him tightly as he cried into her shoulder, both of them real and warm and _alive_.

            “I’m sorry,” he gasped between choked breaths. “I’m sorry.”

            Aoife hushed him and kissed his tears. “I am as well. I did not realize you thought this was to the death.”

            He couldn’t see her twist her head, but he could feel the muscles in her neck move, and when he raised his head, he could see her glaring at the Angel of Death, who simply shrugged his shoulders.  

            “I was scared,” he said, burying his face in her neck once more. “Scared of what could happen.”

            Aoife did not say anything in response, but Jumin barreled on, babbling into her shoulder.

            “I was scared that you would die, scared of magic, scared of what my people would think of you, of me, scared of what they might do. I am so scared, Aoife, and my fear almost killed you.”

            Her hand came to rest behind his ear, and he pulled back to look at her, desperate for some kind of recognition, some assurance that she still loved him, despite his cowardice.

            He found it in her eyes.

            “Fear is not something to be ashamed of, Jumin,” she said firmly. Her eyes searched his, and apparently found what they were looking for, because she smiled and it was soft. “It is only when we let our fear control us that we must be ashamed.

            “You can be brave,” Aoife continued, still staring into his eyes. “I have seen it, time and again. But you must remember, my love, that you do not need to be afraid alone, nor must you be brave alone. That is why I am here. Do you understand me?”

            Jumin nodded. His throat hurt too much, and it was a struggle to get any words out. “I love you.”

            Aoife responded by kissing his lips, strong and warm and full of love. And for the first time in a long time, Jumin was not afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitya is the term from the monastery where Aoife trained. It is a high ranking, meaning essentially that she is a master Blade Dancer. 
> 
> And that's the end! What did you all think??? I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out myself. O.O


End file.
